Glass Slippers
by Rosa Cotton
Summary: Small and delicate, they are your one chance… Cinderella.


Disclaimer: _Cinderella_ does not belong to me; this story gives me no profit but fun. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Glass Slippers

Standing near the back among the servants gathered in the large drawing room of the manor, you press your folded hands to your lips. As you watch, your heart thuds with nervous excitement. A chair has been set up in the middle of the room. Gripping the back of it, Annison bites her lip as she pushes, trying to get her foot into the glass slipper. The page kneeling before her grits his teeth as well as he tries not to fall over backwards from the force of her pushing.

Your stepmother hovers over the poor page and Annison like a vulture. "Push! _Harder!_" she hisses through her teeth, eyes flashing sharply.

Odile stands nearby, her left shoe hanging limply by her side. Her expression is a mixture of disappointment at her inability to fit the slipper, and hope that her sister will, too, fail.

The room is crowded with all the servants, your family, and the entourage from the palace: there are several pages, attendants, noblemen, an old respected counselor wearing spectacles and a powdered wig, and… Your heart rises to your throat as you lean to the right and catch a glimpse of Prince Edward. The corners of his mouth are turned down, his face pale, and his head is bowed as he observes the scene. How different he appears compared to the balls a fortnight ago when his posture was perfect and noble, his head held high, an easy, kind smile lighting his face. Your heart goes out to him.

"I am sorry, my lady," the page's voice draws your attention. "The slipper does not fit," he says regrettably and replaces the shoe on a blue cushion.

Annison starts to cry. Your stepmother throws up her hands. Odile smiles at her sister's misfortune. You let out a long silent sigh. The slipper did not fit. There is still a chance you— Not finishing the thought, you run your hands down the front of your tattered dress and stare at the soot covering your fingers.

"Are there any other young ladies here?" the old gentleman asks, pushing his spectacles up his nose.

_Young ladies…_ You were once, but not anymore. He would not recognize you now. It is better this way.

"No one else, sir," your stepmother swiftly answers with a shake of her head. She turns to Prince Edward, adding. "I'm so sorry, Your Highness."

His face falls slightly. "Thank you for your time," he says politely, the sadness in his tone of voice clear. His eyes sweep about the room.

Everyone bows or curtsies as, after placing his white feathered hat on his head, he walks towards the door, his entourage anxious to move on.

You begin to lower your head in respect; yet the ache forming in your chest will not let you be silent or still. Against your will, in one quick moment you straighten and move forward through the servants. "May I try?" your question is tentative and soft, yet rings throughout the room; everyone turns towards you.

Your stepsisters burst out laughing, exclaiming, "_You!_" while tears of mirth run down their cheeks. Your stepmother gives you one of her silencing cold looks; you will pay dearly for this. The servants exchange glances while the visitors wrinkle their noses in disapproval at your appearance. You lower your head in embarrassment and play with your apron.

"Who is she?" the old gentleman sniffs.

"Cindersoot," Odile says between laughs.

At the same moment Annison claims, "Cinders!"

"Pay no attention to her," your stepmother puts in, "she is only a—"

"She is Ella."

Your father's voice is full of authority and sureness. It is the first time in many years you've heard him speak so, having lived under your stepmother's thumb, and you turn to him, amazed. He meets your gaze. Regret, apology, and love shine in his face. Your forgiveness is in your smile.

Your father returns his attention to his noble guests. "She is Ella, my daughter," he repeats.

Your smile lingering on your face, you bravely look at the old gentleman, his expression puzzled.

"But she was not even at the ball!" your stepmother protests boldly. "Surely she need not try on the slipper."

"Nay, madam," Prince Edward disagrees.

For the first time your eyes meet his. And you find none of the disgust or disapproval you expected. His look is kind, and a faint light enters his dim eyes.

"Let her try. Perhaps she can mend my achy heart like the poor sparrow's wing she tended once in the woods," he says wistfully.

Your cheeks flush, and your heartbeat quickens at him knowing you from that encounter three months ago. Gracefully you walk to the chair and sit down slowly. The color mounts in your cheeks when the prince himself kneels before you with the slipper and guides it onto your foot. A loud gasp goes up from those watching. You reach into your pocket and pull out the matching slipper. One of your stepsisters shrieks, but you barely notice, not when the light in Prince Edward's eyes is growing brighter, stronger. The remaining shards of uncertainty vanish when he takes your dirtied hand in his and tenderly kisses it.

"I am overjoyed to have found you again," he smiles. "From now on we shall not be parted."

You lower your head and start, "Your Highness…" when a blow on your shoulder steals your breath away.

"How _dare_ you…!" your stepmother yells. A second slap, harder, quickly follows.

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You open your eyes and squint against the bright light pouring into the room. You shake your head, disoriented images floating in your mind and sleep clinging to your tired body.

"Get up, you lazy girl!"

Now you grow aware of the stern-faced housekeeper, MacLock, glaring down on you, a broom in her hands.

"What are you doing oversleeping? There is not a moment to lose! Now, get on downstairs. The madam and young misses order you to attend to them." And in a whirl of black she leaves your cold tiny room.

More awake, you scurry out of bed and hurriedly dress. Now you know where you are, what the day is. Yes, there is much to be done. Your family must look their absolute best. Their rank has earned them an invitation to the royal wedding at noon today. A lump forms in your throat, and you blame the dust in the air for suddenly making you teary-eyed. It is better this way.

And you go downstairs, refusing to think about the pair of glass slippers, all which remain of your finery, wrapped up and hidden away under your bed.

THE END

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Author's Note: I got the idea for this when I saw a clip on youtube of Rossini's opera _La Cenerentola_ (Cinderella). After Cinderella got her prince, became a princess, and had forgiven her family, she was left alone in the kitchen of her home with the mice and her broom – everything that had happened to her only a dream.


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